


Cause and Effect

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 08:55:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He really doesn’t know either what he’s doing or how he’s supposed to do it. (Season 3)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cause and Effect

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [De cause à effet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/476804) by [Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune). 



> Initially written for camille-miko who wanted Lincoln/Sucre, maybe with underlying Lincoln/Michael.

It’s because of Sink’s fucking hands: he watched them all day long, clutching a steering wheel or a gun or someone’s arm. Of his expression when he came back from Sona after he visited Michael – a mixture of rage and sadness. Of the bitter curve of his lips. Sucre thinks that it’s not fair that a guy in extremis dodges the electric chair only to end up in this kind of hell.

It’s because of the way Lincoln mumbles his brother’s name in his sleep. It’s almost a whimper. Sucre can’t quite say whether this is a nightmare or a really pleasant dream. All things considered, for their mental sanity, it would be better if it was a nightmare. Because you’re not supposed to say your brother’s name _like that_ when you’re dreaming. Sucre remembers he already thought that a few weeks ago, back in Fox River, in the cell Michael and he shared.

It’s because of the beers they drank and the heat that must mess with his head. Half asleep, he rolls down the couch and staggers to the bed where Linc is dreaming – or having a nightmare – and he lays right against him. He doesn’t really know if he’s seeking or offering comfort. It’s weird, weird, weird the hard, strained muscles that tug and press into him, the masculine scent that invades his nose and mouth, the skin moist with droplets of sweat that slides against his.

It’s because of the way he’s suddenly pinned to the mattress, a hand tight around his throat, a knee pushing between his legs, and Lincoln lying heavy on him. It’s the instinctive reaction of a man who spent quite a lot of time in jail and escaped to a few murder attempts. Then Linc gathers his mind, recognizes him and grumbles, “What the hell are you doing?”

“I...”

It’s because of the thin, slightly damp fabric of their boxers and of Lincoln’s erection pressed into his hip. He adds this to the noises Linc was making while sleeping and he suddenly feels as if the room is shifting around him, the shadows moving and spinning. Breathing hard, he slips a hand between Linc and him and lets it slide down Linc’s stomach, all the while holding his eyes. He jerks when his fingers brush over the hot, silky flesh.

“What the hell are you doing?” Lincoln asks again. He doesn’t try to push him away though.

“I don’t know. I just want to...”

He really doesn’t know either what he’s doing or how he’s supposed to do it. Although he has a pretty good idea. He does know that he wants, for a few instants at least, not to think anymore about the impossible situation all of them are in right now. He wants to brush away the bitter curve of Linc’s lips. He wants to forget the creepy dreams that disturb Lincoln just as they disturbed his brother.

And he knows exactly what he won’t do: he warns Lincoln when Linc’s hands slide down his back and then lower, grabbing his buttocks to try and roll him onto his stomach.

“Don’t even think about it, man. We just...” His fist goes up and down in an evocative gesture that makes Lincoln smirk. Sucre can see the white flash of his teeth in the dim room when he smiles. Then, smoothly, Lincoln crawls down and settles between Sucre’s thighs. OK. He hadn’t thought of that; he never thought Lincoln would do that. He swears and moans when Linc’s mouth closes around his cock and shivers of pleasure under the caress.

Just once, he thinks. Tomorrow, in broad day light, under the sweltering sun, it will be nothing but a dream, a fuzzy memory. It’s doesn’t matter what he kisses, caresses, licks and sucks on in the dark. It doesn’t matter how he arches up and groans and pants beneath Lincoln’s hands and mouth. He’s pretty sure Linc won’t bring it up again, won’t talk about it when the night is over. He’s not of the chatty kind and it’s certainly not the kind of subject he’ll want to dwell on.

There will be contusions and bruises because Lincoln is holding him open and pressed into the mattress, his fingers digging into the muscles of Sucre’s thighs and hips, but they will be lost in the middle of more contusions and bruises. There probably will be the memory of Lincoln’s rough and slightly amused voice when he kneels next to him, a hand on the nape of his neck, and mumbles with a surprising gentleness, “You don’t _have_ to, papi...”

Sucre hesitates for a couple of seconds, breathes in deeply and parts his lips.

* * *

Linc is lying next to him on the bed, as relaxed as he’s able to be. Even with their arms barely touching, Sucre can still feel the moist heat radiating from him. Damn climate. He wonders why he didn’t go back to the couch yet, why Lincoln didn’t throw him out of the bed yet. It makes no sense. On the other hand, nothing that has happened for a few weeks makes sense, and what happened tonight even less. It’s probably why Sucre finds the guts to broach the subject – what could Lincoln do to him anyway? In a hush voice, he says, “You dream of Michael.”

“Is that what woke you up earlier?” Sink asks not looking at him.

“Michael dreams of you.” Lincoln slowly turns his head to the side and waits for more, refusing to acknowledge the implicit question. “Are those dreams or nightmares?”

Lincoln considers the question for a while, an arm folded under his neck, his eyes trained on the ceiling. It lasts so long, Sucre starts to think that he fell asleep or is going to tell him to go to hell. The answer finally comes, a barely audible, exhausted mumble.

“Is there a difference?”

END


End file.
